A love from Bourne''s past seeks his help when assassins threaten her husband, but only treachery burns hotter than true love in the Two years ago, Bourne knew he had to let Abbey Laurent walk away from his dangerous world. Now Abbey is back -- and she’s married to a top government official. But she’s convinced someone is trying to kill her husband, and she wants Jason’s help.; Bourne follows the plot against this man into a deadly web of conspiracy;that puts them all at risk. But the deeper he descends into the violence, the more he believes that Abbey may not know who her husband really is.

Autorentext

Brian Freeman

Klappentext

The hunt for a trove of secret information forces Bourne to decide who lives – and who dies – in this latest installment in the #1 New York Times bestselling series.

A hacked database known as the Files has upended the intelligence community. Careers are being destroyed. Dirty deals are showing up on the front page.  Assassinations are spreading from Europe to the U.S.

The new head of Treadstone sends Jason Bourne on a mission to find out who has the Files and get them back – or destroy them.  But Bourne isn’t alone in this race.  The Chinese want the Files.  So do the Russians.  And the only woman who may be able to help him is a treacherous spy known as Johanna – Bourne’s former lover – who sees the Files as the key to her own vendetta against Treadstone.

Bourne has a rule for friends and enemies alike: Trust no one.  That rule may be the only thing keeping him alive, because the hunt for the Files soon takes Bourne inside a twisted labyrinth of murder and betrayal, where everyone has a hidden agenda.

Including Bourne himself.

Leseprobe
You're being watched!

Johanna glanced across the street from the top of the Las Vegas parking garage and knew why that strange prickling sensation on her neck was warning her about surveillance. The Sphere arena, barely one hundred yards away, had taken on the look of an enormous green eyeball across its metal skin. The feminine eye, with long delicate lashes, stared right at her, winking a couple of times, as if it knew she was there.

She shivered despite herself.

Jesus, that thing gave her the creeps.

It was three in the morning, and for now, Johanna was alone. The nearby office buildings were empty, and so was the parking garage. She'd used a Banish 22 suppressor on her Ruger Mark IV Tactical pistol to silently dispatch the lights over her head, leaving her mostly in darkness. But the whites of the eye on that goddamn Sphere still made her feel like the spotlight of a prison watchtower was zeroing in on her.

A December breeze-cold for Las Vegas-blew desert dust in her face. Johanna's spaghetti-straight blond hair hung down to the middle of her chest, and a wool Golden Knights cap was pulled low on her forehead. She wore black jeans, tight on her skinny legs, plus a white tank top and a gray zipped jacket with extra-deep pockets to accommodate her gun and suppressor. Her aquamarine eyes, as pale blue as Caribbean water, surveyed the quiet corporate campus below her.

Nothing stirred. No one moved in the shadows, and no headlights lit up the street.

Two minutes passed. Then five minutes. Then ten.

Callie Faith was late.

Or was this meeting a trap? Johanna took precautions wherever she went, but these days cameras and scanners were everywhere, and facial recognition technology could peel away most of her disguises. She knew Treadstone was still looking for her. Shadow was still looking for her, and she wouldn't stop until Johanna was dead.

Come on, Callie, where are you?

Finally, on the street below her, she spotted the twin high beams of an SUV turning off Howard Hughes Parkway. The vehicle stopped short of the garage, using one of the handful of outside parking places. Moments later, the driver's door opened. With a Zeiss monocular, Johanna watched Callie Faith climb out from behind the wheel. No driver for her tonight. No congressional town car. Callie was using a Hyundai Santa Fe that Johanna had left on Clark Avenue two blocks from her downtown office. If anyone happened to run the license plate, the DMV records would show the owner as Martin Reynolds, who was currently away on a fourteen-day cruise through the Panama Canal. There would be no way to connect the SUV to Callie Faith.

Neither Callie nor Johanna wanted a record of this meeting.

The congresswoman's high heels clicked on the asphalt as she walked into the lower level of the parking garage. A couple of minutes later, Callie appeared at the garage's stairwell door and scanned the empty parking places. When she spotted Johanna in the shadows, she headed toward her.

Johanna's hand tightened on the Ruger. Her finger curled around the trigger. She waited until Callie was ten yards away, and then she removed the pistol from her pocket and pointed it at the woman's head.

"Stop."

The congresswoman did. She raised her hands in the air. Her face was expressionless, and she said nothing.

Johanna closed the distance between them until they were face-to-face. Callie wore a black trench coat down to her knees, and Johanna searched it, finding nothing. Then she undid the belt, which was tied loosely at the woman's waist. With her gun at Callie's temple, Johanna reached inside the coat and did a thorough, intimate pat-down of the woman's body, making sure that the congresswoman carried no weapons or listening devices.

Callie finally spoke.

"I didn't realize this was going to be a Tinder date."

Johanna backed away without smiling and replaced the Ruger in her pocket. "I don't trust anybody, Congresswoman."

"Call me Callie. And you're right. God knows I wouldn't trust anyone in Congress, either. So what do I call you? In Treadstone, your code name was Storm, but obviously, you're not in Treadstone anymore."

"Obviously. The most recent identity I used was Johanna. Let's stick with that."

"All right. Johanna."

Callie removed oversized amber sunglasses from her face and slid them into the pocket of her trench coat. Her steely eyes were dark, her smile wolfish and icy. She was small, barely five feet tall, and in her early forties, although she was trying like hell to look younger. As the wind mussed the thick strands of her shoulder-length hair, which was the color of milk chocolate, she brushed the loose strands away with manicured fingernails. Her makeup was perfect despite the lateness of the hour.

They'd had months of electronic communication back and forth between them. Even so, Johanna took an immediate dislike to Callie Faith in person. She sized her up as the kind of ambitious, manipulative narcissist that women wanted to slap and men wanted to fuck. But it didn't matter whether she liked her. The enemy of her enemy was her friend.

"It's your meeting," Johanna said. "Let's not waste time."

"Of course. Thank you for agreeing to see me face-to-face. You've been very useful, Johanna. Until recently, the House Intelligence Committee has been mostly toothless. Your tips on clandestine operations have been a big help in finally putting the DNI on the defensive. Everyone on the committee is jealous of my sources. I'm grateful. Someday I hope I can find a way to pay you back."

"Destroy Treadstone. Let Shadow rot in jail. That's all the payback I need."

"That's my plan," Callie agreed. "I want to yank out the deep state by its roots, and that starts with its spy ring. Without Treadstone to back them up, they're deaf, dumb, and blind. But we're also talking about smart, resourceful opponents. They won't go down without a fight, and they have no hesitation about using dirty tactics to win. That's why I wanted to see you."

"What do you want?" …